Ghost in the Ruins
by Tolakasa
Summary: AU. Miracles don't come free, even for healers. Character death. Part 4 of 4. Sequel to Undertow, Cold Fire, and Breathe.


Thanks for all the reviews. I've been going through a rough patch lately and they've really helped.

Now. The last part. I swear. Hope it's worth the wait.

* * *

**Ghost in the Ruins**

Dean's been in a coma for four days. He's breathing on his own and there are no obvious injuries. That's the good news. That's the only reason the doctors haven't airlifted him to Minneapolis.

They kept Sam overnight, long enough to establish that there was nothing wrong with him, and discharged him. If this little town was big enough to sustain a full-time psychiatrist, Sam knows he would have gotten a referral. They think Sam's crazy. They can't figure out why Sam is _defending_ the brother who shot him. Nobody understands why he refuses to press charges and won't even _talk_ to the cops.

Then again, the sheriff thinks he's crazy too. The cops haven't figured out identities yet, mainly because they don't want to get involved in something they can write off as a mental health issue, so it's been easy to deflect them with fake names, feigned confusion, and genuine worry for Dean. The other guy, the guy the demon was possessing, their sole and very confused eyewitness, was committed before the sun rose. Sam doesn't blame them, really. The guy _is_ insisting that he saw Sam die, and yet here Sam is, cluttering up their hospital with worry and crankiness.

Sam's head hurts—there's a bruise where the bullet went in, vivid but just a bruise, smack in the middle of his forehead, black at the center shading to purple on the edges (and if one more person cracks a joke about his third eye, he might strangle them). The headaches are constant, worse than vision-headaches, worse than migraines, but every day they get a little better, and he knows why he has them, even if the doctors don't, even if these stubborn country doctors think he's lying about having them at all and therefore refuse to prescribe any painkillers.

He's supposed to be dead. Headaches are a small price to pay.

He died. Sam's absolutely certain of that. He saw the plan spring into Dean's head as soon as the demon spoke those magic words, _Sammy's mine until he dies_. He knew it had, because he'd had the same plan, and he'd been lifting his own gun to fire that shot, because if that was what it took to get free of the demon, that was what he was going to do. His only hope had been to pull the trigger before Dean. Better to risk a suicide's fate than to put Dean through the agony of knowing he'd killed Sam.

Dean's always been the faster shot.

Sam arrives at the hospital every morning precisely fifteen minutes before visiting hours start, grabs food out of the cafeteria vending machines, and stays in Dean's room until the night nurses get serious about calling security to force him out. He sits by Dean's bed, talking until his throat hurts and then silently listening to his brother's breathing until he feels like he can talk again. Dean's pale, so very pale, and he's worn painfully thin, skin wrapped over bones and nothing else. He used everything he had to drag Sam back.

Sam always knew Dean was more powerful than he was letting on—he let Dean have his illusions because he knows how important they are to Dean's stability—but he never expected _this_.

Sam ran out of topics that were safe for hospital audiences two days ago. His voice died the day before that. There's no sign Dean hears him, not the wriggling of a finger, not the fluttering of an eyelid. The doctors are worried that his brain has shut down, and wouldn't _that_ be ironic.

Dean told him once that if he sank too far, he might not come back.

Sam wishes he had listened better. Maybe he should have told Dean not to play God and _resurrect_ people. Healing is one thing, but Sam was _dead_, he died _instantly_. He can still feel the shock of the bullet entering his skull. He dreams of the demon taunting him with an eternal claim, of dim light on a gun's barrel and the tiny explosion of gunfire; he jerks awake in the night, surrounded by yet another set of unfamiliar shadows, and a lifetime spent in strange rooms isn't enough to cushion the spike of terror, the small eternity of disorientation when he can't feel his own body warm around his soul, the instant of panic before his lungs expand and pull in air and his brain realizes he's still alive.

But there's no demon. Not anymore. No more whispering in his dreams, no more yellow eyes, no more fire.

He knows the dreams are because he remembers, because Dean promised he wouldn't go messing with his mind again and even in that insane attempt to save him he kept his word. It only makes Sam feel worse. Dean had only ever gone into his mind to help him, to take the edge off so Sam could sleep. He could have done so much more—made Sam into the kid their father _wanted_, made him _forget_ Jess and his grief, made him _embrace_ a hunter's life—and he hadn't, and Sam hadn't even been grateful. The only reason he's alive is because of Dean. He doesn't have the right to critique the methods.

He promises his brother, his voice a raw whisper, that if Dean finds his way back, he can heal Sam as far as he wants, physical, psychological, _everything_.

If he'll just come back.

* * *

Sam comes into Dean's room on the morning of the fifth day to find his brother's fingers curled tightly around the plastic railing of his bed. Sam smiles. It's a good sign. It has to be. Dean's developed an awareness that he's sick, that he needs to sink, to heal himself. Sam refuses to interpret that grip any other way. 

The doctors have already breached the topic of long-term care. The hospital chaplain, irked by Sam's refusal to give in to his "superior" wisdom and admit that Dean's going to be a vegetable for the next sixty years, has started leaving glossy brochures about nursing facilities on the bedside table. Sam's learned to just walk away whenever somebody brings it up, because if he doesn't, the urge to punch one of the smug bastards becomes too much and Dean can't afford for Sam to wind up in jail.

Dean's sinking. He's healed people all his life. He brought Sam back from _death_. He'll fix this.

He has to.

* * *

A week after Dean killed him, his eyes open. Sam's there, sitting by his bed, whispering because his voice is gone, when Dean's eyes open and they're all wrong. They're green—not greenish hazel but honest-to-God green, emerald green, a deeper and brighter green than Sam's ever seen in human eyes. "Are we dead?" he whispers. 

Sam hastens to reassure him, pushing the change to the back of his mind. "No, we're not dead, we're both alive—"

"You okay?"

Sam grins. "Warn a guy next time you plan to kill him."

Dean frowns. He looks confused. "Were you—"

"You know I was. You shot me. And you—" He stops, and for the first time, he commits it to words, makes it real. "You brought me back, Dean."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Dean cracks, with a weak smile that holds a flicker of his old self.

"How did you know I—"

"Violent death. Betrayed. Recipe for vengeful spirit. Weren't going anywhere." He's got a point. "He let you go?"

"Yeah." There's no way to explain how certain he is of that, just like there was no way for Dean to adequately explain the bond between himself and the Impala. He just knows.

_Sammy's mine until he dies._ And then he died.

Dean accepts the answer, and his hand finally releases the railing and pats Sam's. "Good," he whispers, and slips into sleep again.

* * *

Dean spends fifteen more days in the hospital, sleeping. Sam's reasonably sure it's sleep, not sinking, because it's nothing like what happened when he found out about the sinking; Dean's not delirious and not trying to get to the car. There's a horde of cute nurses shoveling high-calorie treats into Dean whenever he wakes up, in addition to the IV feeding, all trying to counteract the extreme weight loss. It'll take time for Dean to regain his strength, get back to where he was, but it'll happen. 

On the sixteenth day, Dean spends more time awake than he does asleep, is able to actually remark on the cuteness of the nurses, and the doctors proclaim him over the worst of his exhaustion (_exhaustion_, like that causes massive weight loss and a change in _eye color_, for Christ's sake) and discharge him. Sam insists on driving the wheelchair, refusing to let the nurses do it, and puts Dean into the Impala as gently as he can.

"You okay?"

"Cold." Dean huddles in the passenger seat under a blanket. He's wearing three sweatshirts and his jacket's still loose. Sam figures _cold_ is an understatement, since Dean hasn't made one squawk of protest about the solicitous treatment.

He hands Dean a candy bar before cranking the Impala's heater as high as it'll go. "The doctors said you just have to build up your reserves."

"I know." Dean ignores the candy, but his hand slips out from under the blanket and runs along the Impala's door. He smiles, the soft, content smile Sam's so rarely seen, and it seems that his too-green eyes take on a new sparkle.

"Here." Sam gives Dean back his amulet, with his ring threaded on the cord because it's too big for Dean's wasted fingers. Dean slips it over his head, then his arms vanish beneath the blanket again and he begins to visibly shiver. Sam swears under his breath and gets out of the car so he can get the emergency blanket, the ratty old thing they used to sleep under while Dad drove, out of the trunk. It stinks of gasoline and incense and it's so stained there's no telling what the original color was, but Dean accepts it without complaint. "There's a Wal-Mart on the way to the hotel, I'll stop and get some blankets, okay?" Dean nods. "And maybe some real food. They said you could have anything you want." Still no answer. "C'mon, man, this might be the last time you have me offering to buy you junk food and not pestering you to get something healthier."

Dean looks at him, and if Sam had to pick one word to describe the look in those alien green eyes it would be _broken_. "I don't know if I can sink again."

There's no life in Dean's voice, no hope, like he's lost the one thing that ever made him _Dean_, and Sam wants to grab him and shake him and scream that he's _alive_, that's all that matters, that he's _Dean_ and he's _alive_ and that's all Sam wants, his brother, not a miracle worker, not his own personal magical medic. Hunters survive without psychic healing every day. There's no reason they can't.

He settles for pulling the car into traffic. There's no response he can make that'll make Dean feel better, no response that Dean will even _believe_, because Dean's the reassurer, the protector, and Sam's the reassured, the protected, and it will be awhile before Dean accepts any change in their roles. "Anything else you need at the store?" Sam asks instead, changing the subject, wishing he knew what to say. Dean always knows what to say to make it better. Sam's never had to.

He leaves Dean in the car while he runs into Wal-mart, grabbing a cart full of blankets and all the junk food he knows Dean loves, plus a few things the doctors recommended. He figures the heat that builds up inside while the Impala soaks up the weak spring sun might help Dean warm up. By the time he gets back, Dean's asleep, but he's tossed off the blankets and he looks warm. Well, relaxed, anyway. He doesn't wake up as Sam unloads the cart, not even when Sam slams the trunk lid too hard. Normally, that would get him at least five minutes of Dean's _don't be too rough on my baby, you fuckwit_ riot act. God knows, he never expected to miss _that_.

Dean refuses to admit that he's hungry, so Sam picks the first diner that looks like it makes good hamburgers and goes in to get an armful of food to go, picking half a dozen things off the menu that look like they might tempt Dean to eat; he'll live off the leftovers. The smell of real food makes Dean perk up a little, and by the time they get to the motel, he's actually contemplating, aloud, the possibility of eating something.

Dean eats half a cheeseburger, a few fries, and most of a milkshake before he's so sleepy that he nearly falls facefirst into his ketchup; Sam puts him to bed and buries him under a pile of fuzzy new blankets. It's probably the first time Dean's been in bed before midnight since Dad quit trying to enforce bedtimes.

He cranks up the heater (five minutes later, he's in the bathroom changing to his most lightweight clothes because he's burning up) and spends the evening alternately researching ways to help Dean gain weight, looking for warm places with minimal supernatural activity, and setting his watch to make sure he drinks enough to keep from baking to death. Dean bought him his freedom from the demon. The _least_ he can do is take the vacation Dean's been nagging him to take. They'll stop at the Roadhouse, let Ellen know they'll be out of the game awhile, maybe get some advice about destinations.

When Dean doesn't object in the morning, mainly because Dean's fallen asleep in the passenger seat with half a chocolate Pop-Tart still in his mouth, Sam drives south, towards the creeping summer. Dean sleeps most of the time. Sam stops every hour to shake Dean awake and force him to choke down at least one can of Wal-Mart store-brand Ensure, and every four hours he finds a restaurant and drags Dean out of the car to attempt a full meal, even though he has to sit beside Dean to keep him awake and make sure he doesn't topple out of his chair.

Dean only protests when Sam tries to hand-feed him, and that makes Sam's heart ache, because the fact that Dean's not objecting to the rest of the invalid treatment (he's not even bitching about the stupid nutrition drinks) means things are so much, _much_ worse than either of them wants to admit.

They reach the Roadhouse late at night after six days on the road—not their best time, but that's to be expected, with all the stops—and Dean's reached a point where he can keep his eyes open for twenty or thirty minutes at a time. He's better in the car, away from people. He can even manage the occasional wisecrack now—usually about Sam's driving or musical tastes, even though Sam offers (repeatedly) to let Dean pick the music.

He's beginning to think Dean's refusing to choose just to have an excuse to needle him, and that gives him something to hold on to. If Dean can spare the energy to be a smartass...

The Roadhouse is a mess. They walk into the aftermath of an old-fashioned barroom brawl, chairs and tables splintered and the floor covered in glass and beer. Ash is lying pale and still on the bar, drenched in booze and blood, as Ellen and a hunter Sam doesn't know try to patch up a deep gash in his neck, dangerously close to the major blood vessels.

Dean sways and grabs at Sam's arm, but Sam barely notices. "Ellen, what the—"

"Idiot got in the way of a broken bottle," she replies tightly. "Ash! Lie still, dammit! You're not helping!"

Sam helps Dean to an intact chair nearer the bar and moves to assist Jo in holding down Ash's feet. She flinches away from his presence, is careful to keep her hands away from his—

Ash sits up and tells Ellen to quit hovering, it's just a damn scratch, and there's a thud behind Sam. He turns around to see Dean on the floor, unconscious.

Ellen starts throwing orders around, but Sam doesn't hear them; he picks Dean up—lot easier than it used to be—and heads to the guest room in the back without asking. He automatically puts Dean in the bed that's farthest from the window and the draft from the door. Ellen's right behind him with an armful of bedding. She lays her hand on Dean's forehead and swears. "Jo!" she barks, and her daughter comes running with what looks like an electric blanket. "Get in bed with him until he gets warmed up—"

"No!"

"Shut up, Sam." Ellen's voice is maternally commanding; when he tries to argue, she smacks him. "You wanna be responsible for what Dean's first reaction to waking up in a strange bed with a _guy_ is gonna be?" He can't argue with her logic. "You go talk to Charlie. Me and Jo'll tend to Dean."

"But—" Jo's already kicked off her shoes and she's fiddling with the controls to the blanket, cranking them all the way up. Now she slides under the covers. Sam thinks inanely that this is the _only_ way she'll ever get to sleep with Dean.

"Go talk to Charlie. Now." Defeated, Sam leaves, finds his way back to the bar, where Ash is still fighting over his neck with the hunter who had been helping Ellen. Sam flinches from the whining—Ash is a worse patient than Dean and Dad combined, evidently—and looks around the room for someone who might be named Charlie.

"That your brother who collapsed?" The hunter turns away from Ash as soon as he sees Sam, leaving Ash ranting at a support beam. Sam wishes he could appreciate the humor in it. "Charlie Ellis. Ellen's my cousin."

"Ol' Charlie here's an expert on psychic healing," Ash drawls, a little bitterly. "Long as you don't need him to _do_ anything."

"Ash!" Ash flinches at Ellen's yell. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Ellen, it's just—"

"Then get a broom and start sweeping!" Not even Ash is brave enough to challenge _that_ voice. Ash scurries off. Ellen comes out of the back in time to grab him before he escapes and points him towards the cleaning supplies.

Sam's left alone with Charlie.

Expert and hunter. Oh, yeah, _there's_ a combination they need right now. Sam doesn't want to talk to him, this is Dean's secret, not his, but Ellen shoves them at an intact table with a pitcher of beer and the threat that he'll never get back into Dean's room if he doesn't talk. "Look, we can handle this. We don't want anybody else involved—"

"Little late for that," Charlie says dryly. He kinda reminds him of Bobby, and Sam wants to trust him, but he can't help remembering what happened the last time one of the Winchesters got outed as a psychic in the Roadhouse. "Look, no hunter worth his salt is gonna go after a _real_ healer. Healing's not demonic. Hell, it's about as far from demonic as you can get."

"But—"

"You ever exorcise somebody and have them fall apart?" Sam nods. "That's all you need to know right there. Demons have the power to regenerate, but they can't _heal_. Can't make it permanent. They'll leave a body when it gets too injured, because the power drain's too much. There ain't a demon known to man who can pull off real healing."

Sam frowns. "But—our dad—he made a deal—"

"Yeah. Heard about that." Charlie takes a swig of his beer. "Something that _does_ have healing powers? Reapers. If your brother was dying, there woulda been a reaper there for him. The demon probably jumped into the reaper and used its powers." Sam flinches, remembering the Ouija board and his desperate search for something to combat a reaper. "Now. Tell me what happened."

Reluctantly, Sam explains. He's aware of Ellen and Ash hovering, listening while pretending to sweep up splinters and broken glass. He gets to the part where Dean shot him, and Ellen swears and takes away the beer and brings him a clean glass and a bottle of Jack.

"He brought you back," Charlie says flatly. Sam nods. "Not from the brink, but from death. Full-on _death_. Holy _fuck_. That crazy boy." Sam almost smiles. "Here's the thing, Sam. Healers have limits. _Every_ healer. There's only so much they can do. They can do more for themselves than they can for others, but still, there's things they can't fix. Mortal wounds top the list."

"That's what he said. He—he got electrocuted awhile back—"

"You're the kids I sent to Roy LeGrange? _Shit_."

"You knew—"

"He was on my list of faith healers to investigate, but Joshua said you were desperate and I figured what the hell. I was hoping he was legit." He shakes his head. "Dean _is_ legit, and what he did—Sam, he shattered his barriers. That's how a healer controls his power, how he keeps from losing his grip on _himself_. And what happens when—" Charlie takes a long drink. He can't meet Sam's gaze. "He's radiating. From the looks of things, I'd say about six, ten feet in every direction. Pure healing power, no restrictions. Anything hurt that comes near him—physical, psychological, old, new—is going to get healed."

"No."

"Sam—"

"When he heals people, they fall asleep. Nobody's—"

"Radiating doesn't work the same. It's less intense. It doesn't make people fall asleep. Trust me, Sam. I've seen shattered healers before."

"Oh, _God_." He doesn't need an explanation. Dean's radiating away the energy he needs to heal _himself_, energy he needs to _live_; it's why he can't get warm, why he can't gain weight, why he can't stay awake for more than five minutes.

"You've gotta get him away from people, Sam," Ellen says. "The more people he's around, the worse it's gonna get—"

"Where?" Sam asks brokenly, fighting back tears. "Where am I going to find a place with no people _and_ where I can keep him warm? You saw him, Ellen, he's fucking _freezing_, all the goddamned time—" His voice cracks. Her arms slip around him, a maternal hug that erodes what little reserve he has left. He sobs brokenly into her shirt, is dimly aware of her stroking his hair and saying reassuring things.

Jo's standing in the doorway when the crying jag ends and Sam looks up. Her hair and shirt are plastered to her with sweat (a less well-mannered man than him might say something about her obvious lack of bra), and there's a faint ring of bruising around one eye. He can't remember if the bruise was there when they came in. If she was injured, then Dean would have— "I stayed as long as I could stand it, Mom," she says to Ellen's inquiring look. "I was melting. He quit shivering." Sam breathes a curse of relief.

Jo comes over to their table. She stands closer to him than she has in a long time, and she's visibly relaxed, not holding herself tense in case of another attack, the way she has ever since—

Sam closes his eyes. Dean's radiating healing, and Jo's still psychologically recovering from his (no, it was _Meg_, gotta remember that) attack. He should have thought of that. Should have protested more when Ellen put Jo in Dean's bed. Dean needs that energy—

Hell. It's not like that wasn't Sam's fault too. Maybe this is all his fault.

"I should check on him." That sounds ridiculous. Dean's been asleep and alone for what, five minutes? He doesn't _need_ to be checked up on. Nothing's going to get him in Ellen's spare room.

He stands up anyway, tosses back the rest of his drink, and pushes past them. Charlie and Jo come after him, but one glare and Jo knows better than to push her luck with the concerned sister act. He slams the door open and steps inside, Charlie and Jo right behind him. Dean wakes up, blinks out at them from his cocoon of blankets. "You can have the electric one when you pry it from my cold dead fingers," he deadpans, and it's a stupid, lame attempt at a joke, but Sam laughs.

Dean closes his eyes and drifts back into sleep again. Sam glances at Jo. The last evidence of the bruise around her eye fades as he watches her. He estimates her distance from Dean at about fifteen feet. Farther than Charlie estimated. Is it because Dean's that powerful, or is it a sign of the severity of his injury?

"You can always tell a shattered healer by the eyes," Charlie says softly behind him.

The eyes. Emerald where once there had been only hazel. "They change color." It's not a question.

"Green, usually. Sometimes blue. Met a violet once. Depends on the base color, genetics, things like that."

Sam reminds himself that Charlie can't help being so clinical about this—it's what he does, what he knows—and chokes down the angry, automatic reaction. "Do they recover?"

"The eyes?"

"The healers."

"It's rare—"

"But it happens?"

"I've heard accounts."

That's all he needs to know. A chance is all Dean needs.

He's come back from worse.

* * *

Ellen finds him sitting in her living room the next morning, staring at a dark television. She sits down and goes straight to the point. "You can't stay here, Sam." 

Sam doesn't meet her gaze. "I know." It's too crowded, and too many of the guys who come in are fresh off a hunt, tired and wounded. Dean can't handle that. "I was thinking of going south. Texas, maybe." Or Central America. Someplace with no winter. And no extradition.

"You can keep him warm anywhere, Sam. What he needs most is isolation."

"Lots of empty space in Texas."

"You're going to need help."

"I can take care of him!"

"Hon, I'm not saying different. But you can't take care of him _and_ get everything set up the way he needs. Bobby Singer's got a little cabin in the back of that junkyard of his. I don't think he'll mind if you go there."

Bobby. He hasn't even _called_ Bobby since Dean killed him. South Dakota never even entered his mind. It's still snowing up there. "But the cold—"

"Summer's almost here. And you get him to where he can start recovering, you won't _need_ to keep him warm so much, his thermostat will fix itself."

There's sense in her words, a whole lot of sense, and Sam nods absently. Maybe she's right. Maybe if he can just isolate Dean—

"Sammy?" Dean's standing in the door, wrapped in a blanket. He looks more alert than he has in days. Two days ago, Sam would have thought it meant something; now he knows it's only because there's no one left in range who needs healing. "Did you sleep?"

"No, and he's about to fix that," Ellen says, giving him a stern look. Dean can't afford to waste energy worrying about Sam, and they both know he will, given the slightest provocation. "You look hungry—"

"Not you too," Dean groans.

"Charlie wants to talk to you about your situation, if you can stay awake. And you need to eat."

"You sound like Sam."

"Nah. Sam wouldn't let you have ice cream for breakfast."

Dean gives her a skeptical glance—but, Sam notices, he seems to perk up at the idea of ice cream first thing in the morning. "And you will?"

"This time. Come on. You," she glares at Sam, "make that call and get some sleep." She hustles Dean out of the room, herding him down the hall toward the kitchen. Sam sighs and digs his cell phone out of his pocket.

Bobby's not only willing to let them live in the "shed," as he calls it, he's pissed at Sam for not calling him earlier. Sam holds the phone away from his ear in order to protect his hearing, rubs his temples, and wonders when the hell Bobby got appointed their adoptive father. Or when Ellen got appointed their mother, for that matter. (Does that make Jo their sister? Never mind, he doesn't even want to be _near_ that train of thought.) Did Dad leave behind some kind of paperwork they don't know about, some kind of hunters-only adoption order?

Dean stays awake all day—chilled, a little, but not _cold_, a blanket spread over his lap but not wrapped around him—talking to Jo and Ash and Charlie. Especially Charlie, who's able to tell Dean more about his own gift in two hours than Dean ever figured out. Under other circumstances, Sam would laugh at the stunned expression on Dean's face when Charlie starts talking about how psychic healing works, what healers are supposed to do to take care of themselves, what the purpose of a focus like the Impala is, why resurrecting people is generally frowned upon.

He _does_ laugh when Charlie mentions Dean's eyes and they have to show Dean his reflection before he believes either one of them, because Dean looks just like he got hit in the back of the head with a two-by-four. (And Sam should know. There was this incident when he was seven...)

Ellen chases Sam off to bed then, threatening him with bodily injury if he doesn't get some sleep. He hates to admit it, but she's right; he barely gets his shoes off before he falls asleep.

* * *

Dean's energy doesn't last. By the time Sam wakes up, people have started drifting into the Roadhouse, and Dean's energy is draining away, despite the walls and distance. Sam glances at the crowd when he's lugging a box up from the cellar for Ellen, sees at least two hunters with casts and another five with major bandages. Injuries. Dammit. 

Dean's wrapped up on the couch, watching TV, when Sam goes to check on him. "Why does _everybody_ show _Law and Order_ reruns on Friday nights?" he asks grumpily.

Sam studies him closely. Dean's getting pale again, and the soft drink bottle (no beer until he weighs more than a fifth grader, Ellen said) beside him is untouched. But he's not sleepy yet, and it doesn't look like he's too cold. "Dean—"

"Sam, so help me, if you tell me to eat, I'm going to walk into that room and heal every hunter in reach."

Sam grins. He can't help it. The threat is so _Dean_. "No nagging, I promise. I just want to ask you something."

"Shoot."

The wording makes him flinch. "Why _did_ you shoot me?"

"He said—"

"I know, but—I was going to do it. You didn't have to."

Dean looks at him. It's the first time Sam's really gotten the full force of that strange new green, and it's more unsettling than he expected. "The rules are different for suicides, Sammy, you know that," he says finally.

"Different how?"

"I didn't know if you'd still be around for me to pull back." He yawns. "Must be a crowd building up, I'm getting tired again."

"Bedtime?"

Dean glares at him. "You're enjoying this too damn much."

"Payback's a bitch."

"So are you."

Sam makes the executive decision to _tell_ Dean about going to Bobby's, rather than _ask_ him about it. He mentions it off-handedly as he's making sure Dean has enough blankets. Dean's so sleepy by that point that he just nods and drifts off.

Ellen keeps a closet full of gear left behind by hunters—clothes, mainly, some blankets and sleeping bags, things they've abandoned as useless and that Ellen and Jo have spent their spare time mending and cleaning. Sam raids it without a moment's hesitation, taking most of the blankets and anything that looks like it's warm and will fit Dean's wasted frame. A South Dakota spring isn't much warmer than a southern winter.

He doesn't let himself think how single-minded he's become, how his world has narrowed to _fix Dean_ the way Dean's used to be about _protect Sammy_. It's only fair.

Isn't it?

* * *

They leave first thing in the morning; with Dean more awake than he has been, they shouldn't have to stop as much and Sam figures that, with a little judicious speeding, they can make it to Bobby's by dark. They've left the highway and are on the road to the junkyard when Dean softly orders, "Stop the car." 

Sam obeys immediately, easing the Impala off the road. He might wish for a little more shade, but Dean will appreciate the sun's warmth. "You okay?" Sometimes Dean gets sick, though that's usually when there's a lot of people around. Now they both know it's from the energy drain, too much too quick.

Dean runs his hand along the door. "I'd do it again, Sammy," he says softly.

"Killing me? Thanks a lot."

"Not shooting you. The— What did Charlie call it?"

"Shattering your barriers."

"Yeah. Shattering the barriers. I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"I know you would, Dean, why—"

"I don't want you to blame yourself."

"Why would I—" He stops. Looks at Dean, who's under a blanket despite the heat building inside the car; sweat is dripping into Sam's eyes but Dean's shivering. _Still_ shivering. "Dean. No. I'm getting you away from people, where you can get better—"

Dean gives him a weak smile, and it hurts. There should be _energy_ in that smile, it should be that damn cocky grin, not this. "Sammy, are you going to take me away from _you?_"

"I'm not—"

He can't remember what it was like to be dead.

It hits him suddenly, as suddenly as that bullet, that he can't remember when the memories became no more clear than dreams, when the pain and guilt over Dad and Jess and all those other people he couldn't save became just scars and no longer gaping wounds. He's not even harboring resentment at Dad anymore, remnants of all those fights over hunting and normality and his right to his own life. He's willing to bet that he could go to a circus right now and not have to fight down a panic attack during the clown act. "No," he whispers.

"I sank too far. Remember what I told you?"

Of course he does, because it was one of the few times he'd ever seen his brother honestly afraid. "Dean, quit talking like that. You'll be all right. We just need—"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, and the familiarity of the words makes Sam flinch, makes his blood run cold. Dean reaches for Sam's arm. "It'll all be okay."

"Dean, don't—"

Dean's fingers clench on his arm. Ice soaks into him, cold and gentle...

Sam jerks awake. Dean's hand is limp against the seat, where it fell when he let go of Sam's arm. He's slumped within his nest of blankets. There's a hint of a smile lingering on his face.

He's not shivering.

He's not breathing.

"Dean?" He grabs Dean and shakes him; there's no reaction and the body's cold in his arms. "_DEAN!_" he screams, and he's crying before he realizes it, but all the screaming and tears in the world can't bring Dean back.

* * *

He ends up driving to Bobby's just because he doesn't know what else to do, because he's too close to not finish the drive, because if he doesn't show up Bobby will come looking for them. Bobby comes out to meet him, takes one look at him, and knows what's happened, even before he sees the body in the back seat. "Sam—" 

"I don't want to hear it," he says, as coldly as he can manage.

Bobby tries again that evening, and Sam shoots him down just as quickly, just as harshly. He's preparing his brother's body for burning. He wouldn't be if Dean hadn't played God and brought him back. "This is my fault."

"He was a healer, Sam. Fixing people is what they do. It's instinct—"

"_I don't want to hear it, Bobby!_" Bobby finally leaves him alone.

This is all his fault. If Dean had kept the sinking a secret, he would never have killed Sam. If Sam hadn't pressed him to tell him all the details, if he'd let Dean have his secrets instead of pushing and prying—

It's all his fault.

* * *

Sam burns Dean's body on a pyre made of a wreck in the back of Singer's Salvage. Bobby offered to keep him company, but he doesn't want company, doesn't want sympathy or understanding. 

He wants Dean back.

He forces himself to spend the night in Bobby's guest room (pretty much a closet with a cot), but he's awake before dawn, before Bobby's even awake, and leaves without speaking to the older man. He gets into the car, starts the engine, and just sits there. Wishing. Fighting back tears and failing.

It's not supposed to be this way. He's not supposed to be alone. It's selfish and mean and he doesn't care, because all that matters is that he's not supposed to be alone!

_You never listened, Sammy._

God, it's like he can hear Dean's voice—

_You _are_, moron. Didn't you learn anything at that fancy college of yours?_

"Dean?" he whispers. This isn't possible, he took all the precautions to make sure Dean wouldn't turn into a ghost— He can't do this! He can't try to persuade _Dean_ to move on, it'll kill him all over again—

_You really weren't listening when I told you about me and the car, were you, Sammy?_ He swears he hears Dean heave a theatrical sigh. _Dude, why did I even bother?_

Buttons on the radio start moving, all on their own, and it tunes into static, static that suddenly goes quiet. "_Now_ can you hear me?" Dean's voice crackles out of the speakers.

"Holy _shit!_" Sam scrambles frantically for the door handle, but it won't move.

"Christ, Sam, you act like you've never talked to a dead guy before."

"I— Dean, dammit, I took all the precautions—"

"Sammy." The voice is tired and so very _Dean_ that Sam wants to cry. "I didn't die, I _sank_. Remember? I _told_ you this was going to happen. Just sooner than I expected."

"That's not—"

"Charlie told me he'd never seen a shattered healer recover. Didn't he tell you—"

"Of course he didn't!"

Dean sighs. "Son of a _bitch_. I thought you knew." A mutter of static—cursing? "I lost too much of me, Sammy. Too much into the car. There wasn't enough left of me in my body to stay there. The radiating—I didn't have the energy left to keep myself in my body."

"But—"

"It's a miracle I lasted as long as I did." Sam stares at the radio, trying to wrap his mind around this. "I thought you knew, Sammy. I thought we were going to Bobby's to—to see it out. I didn't know you were trying to save me."

"You would have saved me."

"Well, yeah." Dean's voice is so matter-of-fact that Sam has to smile. "Now, are we going to drive somewhere, or just sit in Bobby's driveway all day?"

Sam sits there, still half in shock. "Um. Where do you want to go?"

"Dude, I'm the car. I don't _care_." Sam doesn't move. "Don't make me see if _I_ can control the car, Sammy, because you know I will."

Automatically, Sam shifts the car into gear and drives it out of the junkyard and onto the road, before Dean can start to whine. Dean always was restless. Apparently becoming a car hasn't changed that.

Becoming a car. _Jesus_. When did his life get so crazy that having his brother's spirit stuck in a _car_ is the _least_ of his problems?

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Watch the road. You wreck me, we're gonna have words."

For the first time in weeks, Sam laughs, really truly _laughs_. It's laughter born of relief as much as the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. He hasn't lost Dean. Dean's still with him. In the goddamned _car_, but still with him. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How exactly does 'driver picks the music and shotgun shuts his cakehole' apply to this situation?"

Laughter issues from the speakers. "Oh, trust me, Sammy," Dean says, still laughing, "I'll let you know if I don't approve."

**_the end_**


End file.
